Groaning, “Fuck,” his mouth captures mine as his hands slide down my back to my ass. He cups it, then lifts me off the ground like I weigh nothing at all. Wrapping my legs around his hips, I moan into his mouth. He walks us into his apartment, kicking the door shut behind us.
When I blink my eyes open, the early-morning light greets me through the partially opened blinds next to the bed. I realize I’m not home; then I feel the heavy weight of Wesley’s arm draped over my bare waist. I pull in a quiet breath and let it out slowly as I look around. The room is small—just big enough for the queen-size bed I’m lying on and a dresser tucked in the corner. There are no curtains covering the windows or pictures on the walls. There’s nothing to tell me anything about the man I just spent the night with. The man who held me throughout the night, the man still curled around me.
Worrying my bottom lip, I debate what I should do now that I’m awake. The idea of having to face Wesley when he wakes up sends panic pulsing through my system. I know enough from talking to friends that the morning after is always awkward for both parties, and I want to save us both that experience. Figuring it’s better to get out now, I carefully move out of his grasp. This isn’t easy to do because his hold on me seems to tighten whenever I make any leeway. Finally extracting myself from him and the bed, I quietly get up and search through our clothes—scattered across the floor—until I find my stuff.
Once I have everything in my arms, I head for the bedroom door. I pause with my hand on the doorknob and look back at the bed. Running my eyes over Wesley’s dark hair, his face relaxed in sleep, and his big, strong body makes something uncomfortable shift in my stomach. It’s like my soul is telling me that I’m an idiot for just taking off and not seeing what will happen if I stick around.
Shaking off that feeling, I quietly open the door and step out, closing it behind me. Walking into his living-room-slash-kitchen, I put on my clothes as fast as I can. I grab my bag and toss it over my shoulder. Nibbling my bottom lip some more, I wonder if I should leave him a note. I close my eyes at the ridiculousness of the thought. What would it even say? “Thanks for last night?” “It was fun?” Yes, we had a good time, but he had a good time with the Mackenzie who dresses sexy, wears makeup, and drinks martinis. He wasn’t with the real me. Mac the tomboy. The beer drinker, the girl who is always just one of the guys.
My eyes sting at that realization. I like Wesley, but he has no idea who I really am. I doubt that he would like me if he did.
As I leave his apartment, I stop at the top of the steps on the sidewalk and look both ways. I’m not far from the train, so instead of getting a cab like I planned on doing, I make my way toward the subway station at the end of the block. I swipe my MetroCard, then take the stairs down into the mostly empty platform.
Since it’s Saturday, I know it might be a while before my train arrives. I take a seat on one of the benches lining the wall, then dig through my bag for my phone and come up empty-handed. I close my eyes and grit my teeth.
I know I had my phone when I was with Wesley because I sent a text to Libby to let her know not to worry about me. I typed that message in Wesley’s bed while he tried to distract me with his mouth and hands, something he succeeded in doing two seconds after I pressed “Send.”
Groaning, I drop my face to my hands. I left it back at his place.
“Now what?” I ask myself aloud.
I can’t go back and knock on his door. I would look like a complete idiot if I did that.
What would I say? “Hey! I just snuck out of your bed and apartment, but I came back because I think I left my phone behind. Can I come in and search for it?”
“Google is the answer.” Pulling my hands away from my face, I sit back and look at the man standing in front of me. His white hair is wild and sticking out in every direction, his face is pale, and his clothes are dirty and torn. “Google is always the answer. Follow Google.”
He twists his neck back and forth as he gets closer to where I’m sitting. Seeing the way his eyes are dilated and the pulse in his neck is thumping away, I know he’s high. Meaning he’s unstable. My dad has always told me never to show fear, never to allow anyone to think they can intimidate me. That has always stuck with me. I raise my chin, and he stops moving, but I don’t relax. I know better than to let my guard down. Sliding my hand into the pocket of my coat, I wrap my fingers tightly around my can of mace and stand up.
He doesn’t move, but his eyes stay locked on me as I slowly back away from him down the platform toward a young couple who is making out and an older gentleman who is reading the paper. Hearing the sound of the train rushing through the tunnel, I sigh in relief when I see that it’s mine. As soon as the train stops and the doors open, I get into a crowded car and take a seat across from the doors. I watch them shut as the train pulls away.
A flash of black catches my attention, and I turn my head. My eyes widen when I see Wesley. He’s wearing a pair of gray sweats, a black hoodie, and sneakers—and he’s running down the platform after my train. I stand without thinking, and his disappointed eyes meet mine through the window right before he disappears out of sight as we head into the tunnel.
Taking my seat again, I close my eyes, lean my head back, and tuck my purse in front of my stomach. I hold it there tightly, trying to stop a wave of nausea.
He came after me.
I don’t know how he knew I would be getting on the train, but he did.
He came after me. Or at least I think he did.
I furrow my brow, then feel my heart plummet when I realize he probably found my phone and was just trying to catch me so he could return it. Opening my eyes again, I take a deep breath. I need to figure out how to get my phone from him. It will be more awkward than waking up with him, but I can’t afford to buy a new one.
As soon as I reach my stop, I head up the steps out of the station and then walk the three blocks to my place. Libby and I share a one-bedroom apartment on the second floor of a three-family house. The house is a traditional New York City brownstone, with a wide stoop in the front. In the summer, I sit there and watch the kids in the neighborhood play as I drink my coffee in the mornings.
I got the apartment when I moved to New York. It was the only thing I ever had that was just mine, the first thing I didn’t have to share with my sisters. Well, until Fawn came to the city to go to college. Libby joined us not long after that. Thankfully, Fawn no longer lives with us. I love my sisters, but the three of us sharing the small space led to a lot of fights.
As soon as I’m inside the foyer, I stop at the mailboxes and open mine. Pulling out a handful of mostly junk mail, I see Miss Ina open her apartment door an inch to peek out to see who’s in the hall. Doing the nice thing, I give her a smile. I regret it instantly, because she takes it as an invitation to open the door completely. Miss Ina is eighty years old, a tiny thing with a humpback that makes her appear even smaller than she already is. Her white hair looks like a big puffy cloud on top of her head, and her frail skin is practically transparent, but her brown eyes are so dark, they look almost black. I swear when she looks at you, it’s like she’s looking into your soul. Scanning it for all the wrongs you’ve done in your life. Nothing happens in the house without her knowing about it. She knows everyone’s business—sometimes before they even do.
“We need to talk,” she says as she pushes her walker in front of her and moves out into the entryway.
“How can I help you, Miss Ina?” I ask, watching her hobble closer with her walker squeaking as she sidles up to me.
“I can’t sleep with all the banging around upstairs.”
“Miss Ina, we’ve talked about this. The house is old. It’s not soundproof. Libby and I both try to be quiet, but you can’t expect us to tiptoe around upstairs all the time,” I say as nicely as I can.
She huffs. I do feel bad for her. I know exactly what she’s going through, since there’s a family who lives above us with three small children. We can hear everything they
do upstairs—and I mean everything—from the kids playing with cars on the floor to Mrs. and Mr. Kind’s bed banging against the wall at night as they work on a fourth baby.
“I need my rest. You girls need to be more considerate of your neighbors,” she says.
I sigh. I’ve been down this road with her enough times to know that she won’t give up until I agree, even if I don’t really agree with her.
I give in. “We will try to be quieter.”
She huffs again in response. Giving up on making her happy because it’s impossible, I tuck my mail into my bag and scoot around her and her walker. I move toward the stairs.
“Have a great day, Miss Ina!” I call over my shoulder when I’m halfway up the first flight. She doesn’t respond—not that I expected her to.
Unlocking the door to my apartment, I push it open and listen to it groan. I step inside and shut it behind me. Okay, I slam it a little to get it to close—and to piss off Ina. I shrug off my purse and jacket, then lay both of them on the couch. Next, I take off my boots and drop them to the floor near the couch. The apartment is small, just about four hundred square feet. The living room is just inside the front door and is barely big enough for the couch that sits under the pass-through window into the kitchen. The TV is directly across from it. The kitchen is also tiny, but it works for Libby and me since neither of us can cook. The apartment might not be fabulous, but the bathroom is amazing—or rather, my bathtub is. The old claw-foot tub is the only reason I haven’t moved out.
Knowing Libby is at work, I start to undress as I make my way into the bathroom. I have always loved taking baths, and a bath is exactly what I need to relax after the morning’s excitement. Filling up the tub, I dump a handful of bath salts into the water, then climb in. After an hour of soaking, I get out and put on a pair of sweats and a T-shirt. I plant myself on the couch in front of the TV with a bowl of Cheerios. I tell myself that I won’t worry about getting my phone back from Wesley until after the weekend.
But I do worry, and when I’m not worrying, I spend every moment thinking about him.
Chapter 2
THAT SO WASN’T PART OF THE PLAN
MAC
Over the past few days, I’ve thought of a hundred different ways I might be able to get my phone back from Wesley without actually having to see him face-to-face. First I thought about breaking into his place and stealing it, but I don’t think that would go over well—he would know it was me if all that was missing was my phone. I also thought about asking my sisters to help me out by dressing up like cable repair workers, but they would ask too many questions, so I don’t bother. I was at a loss until this morning when an idea came to me—a lame idea, but an idea all the same.
After I got ready, I left my place and made a couple of stops before getting on the train to Wesley’s. When I reach the steps in front of his apartment, I look around to make sure the coast is clear before taking the stairs down to his door. I drop my purse on the bottom step, and I get out the note I wrote, the prepaid envelope I just bought, and some clear packing tape. I unroll a section of tape, press the envelope and note to the door, then tape across the top of them. Realizing I have to use my teeth to rip the tape because I don’t have scissors, I get up on my tiptoes to bite it. It’s too high for me to reach with my mouth. As I start to pull the envelope from the door, the roll of tape falls from my grasp and hits the ground, then rolls away from me.
“Dammit!” I hiss as it wraps around itself and my hand. Ripping the envelope off the door, I try to untangle myself from the mess of clear packing tape, cringing at the obnoxious noise it makes.
“Do you need some help?”
“Shit!” I shout as I spin around.
When I look up, my eyes meet Wesley’s. He’s more gorgeous than I remember. He also looks slightly annoyed, with his arms crossed over his massive chest and his blue eyes locked on me.
“You’re here . . . ,” I say like an idiot, feeling my face get hot.
“I live here.” He lifts his chin toward the door. “What are you doing here?”
“I . . . I was just in the neighborhood,” I lie while wrapping the tape into a ball around the roll in my hands.
Moving his eyes from my face to the roll of tape in my hands, he asks, “What were you doing?”
“I was . . .” My words taper off as he drops his eyes to the ground. He bends down to pick up the note I was going to leave him.
Wesley, sorry I missed you. I think I left my phone behind when we hung out. Can you put it in the envelope and drop it in the nearest mailbox?
Thank you, Mackenzie
He reads it aloud. My cheeks, which were already hot, burn hotter as he lifts his head to look at me.
“Did you ring the bell?” he asks.
I look at the door behind me, then back at him.
“Bell?”
“The doorbell—did you ring it?”
“Um . . .”
“It’s hooked up to my cell phone, so when someone rings the bell, my phone rings.”
“Maybe it’s broken?” I suggest lamely, tipping my head to the side and hoping I look innocent.
He takes two steps down, presses the button, and his phone chimes immediately.
Darn it.
“Doesn’t seem broken to me.” He turns around to face me, his huge body making the small alcove we’re in seem even smaller.
Knowing I don’t have a good excuse, I keep my mouth closed. My eyes widen involuntarily as he closes the minute distance between us with his eyes locked on mine.
“Wesley . . . ,” I breathe when his familiar scent fills my lugs. His warmth seems to wrap around me even though he doesn’t touch me.
“You slipped out on me. Why?” The question is soft, but there is no mistaking the annoyance and frustration in his voice or his eyes as he waits for my answer.
I won’t be giving him an honest answer, because saying why I left the way I did out loud would be ridiculous now that I’m standing in front of him.
“I . . . fuck”—he rips his hand through his hair—“I can’t believe you just took off without a word.”
My eyes close briefly. I open my mouth to say something, anything.
Before I can, he cuts me off with a shake of his head and a sharp “Never mind.”
Turning his back to me, he opens the door and goes inside. I swallow the mass of emotions I’m feeling as I stand in the open doorway, wondering what I should do next. Pulling in a much-needed breath, I shove the ball of tape into my bag and pick it up before moving into his apartment. I didn’t really stop to look around the last time I was here. Seeing it now, I realize I didn’t miss out on much. The kitchen is small, with only a round table and two chairs in the middle of it. In the living room, there is a row of boxes stacked up against the wall, a big comfortable-looking gray couch, and a large TV on a plain black stand. The whole space is empty of anything personal—there are no pictures or anything else to make it homey. I wonder if they are in the boxes still to be unpacked.
“Here,” he rumbles, holding out my phone.
Turning to face him, I reach out slowly and take my phone. I shove it in the pocket of my jacket while I avoid his eyes.
“Thank you.”
“Sure.”
“I’m sorry,” I say quietly. “I . . .”
“I don’t want to hear it,” he replies, cutting me off before I can say more.
I fight the urge to flinch.
“I don’t want to hear whatever bullshit excuse you’re going to try to feed me.”
“Excuse me?” I lift my head to look at him.
“You heard me.” He holds my stare.
I feel my eyes narrow, and his do the same in return.
“You got your phone. That’s why you came, right? So why are you still standing here?”
“Wow.” I shake my head, pull my eyes away from his. “You’re a dick.”
“You couldn’t get enough of my dick the other night, baby. If I remember corre
ctly, you begged me for it more than once,” he says.
My head snaps back toward him. “Jerk!” I hiss, lifting a hand to smack him.
He catches it before I make contact. I lift my other hand to try again, but he catches that one, too, and then pulls them both up above my head. Breathing heavily, I stare at him. He stares back.
“Now what?” he says with a smirk.
I do the only thing I can think of. I raise myself up on my tiptoes and press my mouth to his. I expect my move to knock him off balance—and down a peg or two—but that doesn’t happen. Instead, his mouth captures mine, and his tongue slips between my parted lips. I don’t fight the kiss. Just like last time, I discover I want this more than I want anything. I want him.
Releasing one of my hands, he wraps his arm around my waist and pulls me flush against him. His mouth travels down my jaw to my neck. He bites it softly, making my toes curl. Feeling the pull of arousal deep in my belly, I tug at his shirt until it’s free from his jeans, then run my hand up his abs before dragging my nails down over the ridges and valleys there.
“Wesley . . . ,” I whimper as his tongue flicks across my neck.
The next thing I know, his breath whispers across the shell of my ear.
“Tell me you want this.” He presses his erection into my stomach, letting me know he’s ready to repeat what happened the other night. “Tell me you want me.”
“I want you,” I moan just as his mouth captures mine once more.
His hands rip at my clothes, and mine do the same to his in return. Hearing my jacket and top hit the floor, I urge his shirt up and over his head, then move my hands to the button of his jeans. He walks us backward, toward his room. He gets his pants down over his hips before he pulls away from me.
“Kick off your shoes.” With a jerky nod, I work my feet out of my sneakers. I bite my lip as he pulls down my pants and panties in one move, then slides his hands up my thighs, along my sides, and then around my back to remove my bra. He lets it fall to the floor without a second glance.
Standing completely naked in front of him, I fight the urge to hide myself from his heated gaze as it roams over every inch of me. It makes me feel hot and restless.